


A Nightmare Come True

by LyssGreen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: And kinda sweet, Greg broke up with Mycroft, Greg is forgiving, M/M, Mycroft really was scared, Mycroft was a bit of a dick, Past Mycroft/Lestrade, Past Relationship(s), Season4 Episode 3, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-17 19:51:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9340694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyssGreen/pseuds/LyssGreen
Summary: After the scare that Sherlock prepared for him, a very shaken up and scared Mycroft calls the only person that he can think of for comfort, Greg. However in his state of heightened fear he forgets that Greg broke up with him a month ago and that he really shouldn't be calling him - especially this late at night. But Greg is nothing if not kind, maybe even forgiving if he gets an apology.  Of course their relationship can only be salvaged assuming they're both alive - and after the explosion Baker Street Greg is terrified that isn't the case.





	1. A Call For Help

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for any mistakes as this was quite quickly typed and my work is unbeta'd but I just wanted to get it written.

Eleven at night and Greg Lestrade was still stuck at Scotland Yard in his painfully cold office trying desperately to fill in these last damned forms so he could just leave for the night. Skedaddle. Vamoose. Go! There wasn’t even any particular reason other than it was late and he’d just had to witness the aftermath of a domestic violence call – and those calls never failed to leave him in a shit mood for the next week. At least.

Not that he hadn’t already been in a shit mood. It didn’t seem to matter that it was Greg himself who had broken it off with Mycroft, he still felt worse than when his wife had left years prior. He hadn’t wanted to but Mycroft made relationships so damn infuriating that he couldn’t stand it anymore, not without taking a break from him at least. Some time to remember what it was like to not have to put up with being treated like some underling on the occasion that Mycroft forgot they were partners, not master and servant – at least not outside of the bedroom.

 _Nope. Stop that. Can’t be thinking back to that now, not after I made the choice to move out_ , he’d moved in the pace of one night, out of Mycroft’s and into his own flat that he’d never gotten around to selling. He knew subconsciously this was why he’d never sold it, why he had never fully moved in with Mycroft – so that he had somewhere to run to when Mycroft became too much to handle.  

_God that made him sound like a horrible person, didn’t it?_

In a practiced movement he signed his signature on the last form that urgently needed his attention for the night, quietly muttering a ‘fucking finally’ under his breath he stood slowly, stretching out his muscles that were getting far too old. At least his age was catching up with his hair at last, though. Going grey at 29 had not been enjoyable.

He had just began reaching for his jacket that he’d tossed on the chair in the back corner of the room that he heard his mobile buzz.

“Lestrade.” The response was almost mechanical he’d said it so often at late hours of the night without even checking the caller ID – it was usually the Yard or Sherlock and both had to be answered. “What is it?” That and he was too tired to sound anything resembling polite.

“Gregor- ah, Detective Inspector.” The stumble was obvious, but the slight tremble to his voice wasn’t. Not unless you’d slept beside the man for years. And no matter how hard Greg tried he couldn’t bring himself to ignore it.

“Mycroft? What’s wrong? You sound a little…off.” He knew he’s get slapped if he ever told Mycroft he sounded scared so ‘off’ seemed like the better choice of word. He heard Mycroft breathe deeply but with obvious difficulty on the other end of the line, “My…croft?” He only narrowly avoided using the shortened version of his name.

“Yes, sorry. I was wondering…” A short silence followed and Greg found himself frowning, “It was just that… Sherlock just… Never mind. Please, forget I called you.” Mycroft gave a resigned sigh and Greg heard the movement on the other end on the line that indicated he was about to hang up.

_Was he calling for help?_

“No, wait! Mycroft, just tell me whats wrong. You wouldn’t have called if nothing was wrong _.” Yeah, there’d be no reason to break the awkward radio silence between us if it wasn’t important_ , “What has Sherlock done?” Greg knew there was a chance he would become unpredictable after Mary had died but since his last big case and John moving back in he had been quiet, peaceful even. But whatever he had done to shake up Mycroft so much indicated that the peace was over.

“Really, Greg, I shouldn’t have called you. Anyone but, I’m sure.”

“Mycroft,” His voice was low and warning, he still cared about Mycroft despite everything and he was going to find out whatever ad happened, “Tell me.”

“He set up some form of ‘pantomime’ with the express purpose of scaring me. My own personal nightmare. And if my heartrate is anything to go by I would have to say he succeeded. However he also disabled the security systems at the house and…and it doesn’t matter now.” There was a sadness in his tone as he trailed off.

 _No security systems, scared and alone. Probably. That isn’t safe._ Mycroft _isn’t safe._

“Are you alone, Mycroft? Can I come over – I mean, do you need me to? Come check everything? Check on you?”

“I was going to ask for something along those lines, yes.”

“Along those lines? What _exactly_ were you going to ask, Mycroft?”

“To stay at your flat with you tonight.” The words were barely audible through speakers as Mycroft mumbled them as quietly as he seemed to be able. “It would only be until morning. Sherlock has requested my presence at 221B in the morning and I’ll be able to get alternative accommodation arranged after that. I just…for tonight - I’m sorry, Gregory. I called you without thinking.”  And Greg couldn’t help himself from smiling slightly at the knowledge that Mycroft’s first thought had been to come to him. There was of course an annoying voice in his head that reminded him that this would be a terrible idea. But then the rest of the brain was entirely unable to deny the elder Holmes.

“Of course. Let me get in my car and I’ll be right over okay? I’ll pick you up and you can rest at mine.” He could hear the crackle on the line that indicated Mycroft had just nodded, “And look, My – Mycroft, it’s okay.”

Mycroft didn’t say anything other than a ‘thank you’ when he got into the car, and even that was barely any more than a whisper. Greg had seen Mycroft without his guard up of course, many time in fact. But scared Mycroft had always disturbed him a little, so different from the usual confident air he carried with every step. The last time he’d seen Mycroft so scared was when Greg had been shot in the line of duty a year or two before and had woken up to find Mycroft at his bedside physically shaking from fear and his face painted with worry.

Greg shook his head slightly to dispel the memory and he pulled up outside the apartment block his flat was in. He practically had to herd Mycroft out of the car and _Christ he really was shaking wasn’t he?_ Mycroft seemed to remember exactly the floor and door that Greg’s flat was, he feet taking him there without Greg’s prompting. Greg did however push him towards the sofa as soon as they got in however before he went to put the kettle on and make tea, only taking his eyes away from Mycroft for the amount of time it took to grab a blanket from the bedroom before he came back and laid it atop him.

When Greg came back with the two mugs of tea Mycroft had nestled into one corner of the sofa and was quite obviously staring at the remote on the coffee table in front of him. Greg handed him the cup first and then the remote before sitting in the other corner of the sofa and watched worriedly as the powerful politician as he flicked quite aimlessly through channels before settling on ‘Dave’ which had a comedy program about the news on – which proved to be about five years outdated but Greg almost found himself fooling himself that they were still together. So many nights had been similar to this, just without one of them being scared and usually with one curled into the other’s lap.

“I know it was my fault, Greg.” Mycroft announced quietly from out of the blue around half an hour later.

“What are you talking about, its Sherlock who was being a dick.” Greg was pretty certain he knew fine well what Mycroft was hinting at but he played dumb. Some selfish part of him wanted to hear Mycroft say it. And an even more selfish, sentimental part of him thought that if that happened he could forgive the man and they could have their own little slice of paradise back.

“Us. Our relationship. I know I ruined us. I want to apologise, and for you to know if there’s anything I can do, any chance to make it right between us – I’ll do it.” Mycroft was staring pleadingly into Greg’s eyes now. He responded with a warm smile and laid his own tanned hand on Mycroft’s pale one.

“Saying sorry is a good start. Now, give me your cup, I’ll put it away. We can talk about this tomorrow after you’ve had some sleep.” Mycroft gave a hopeful smile of his own back, the rare kind of smile that only Greg ever got to see. As Greg moved back to the kitchen he noticed Mycroft blankly turn back to the TV, not noticing as Greg snuck into the bedroom and brought out some of Mycroft’s night clothes and a suit bag that had all been left at the flat in time past along with another blanket.

“I’ll leave these here,” he said softly, laying the clothes out on the armchair and laying another blanket on him, he was already stretched out and looked asleep. Greg switched off the TV and pulled the blanket up fully. “Goodnight, My.” And Greg left to go to bed.

\---

When he woke in the morning it was to the sound of the front door closing. Greg jumped up quickly and hurried into the living room to find a note left on the coffee table;

_Thank you, Gregory, truly. I decided to respond to the summons of my little brother, we both know he will only complain if I do not. I reassure you I feel much better today and would be more than willing to talk more about how to reconcile the situation between us,_

_Mycroft_

Greg smiled at the overly formal letter, it’s always what he had been like. Even post-its on the fridge had been written like that. He got ready for work happily and considered the possibility of no longer coming home to a small empty flat but rather to Mycroft’s large, glamorous house.

Greg’s happy and contented mood didn’t fade until he heard of the explosion at 221B Baker Street later that day when he was in the Yard. And when Mycroft’s mobile rang out he near enough sprinted out of his office to get to his car. If Sherlock made Mycroft a fake nightmare he could only hope that this was all fake too. Because losing Mycroft really would be a nightmare come true.


	2. A Long Day of What-if's

221B Baker Street was a mess. Almost non-existent. The majority of the furniture had been blown apart, the windows had obviously been blown out from the blast from the glass outside on the road but with the lack of window frames left it was difficult to tell there had even been windows. Lestrade stood among the wreckage of the flat looking around blankly. He’d already been there for an hour. There was no trace of survivors, but no human remains either – and right now that was the only real positive Greg could find in the situation.  The only thing he could do to stop his brain from churning over thoughts and memories of Mycroft.

_He could be dead. He could be easily be dead. Gone. I may not ever see him again. God, I’ll never wake up beside him again, or be woken up by him getting a phone call at 3AM from some foreign minister in Estonia or something. That’s not something I ever thought I’d miss. But when I broke up with him I never really wanted it to be for good. Now I’ll never be able to apologise, tell him I’m sorry, never be able to get back together. There's so many what-if's, would we be here right now if I had just talked to him instead of being too hot headed and practically running anyway from him in the night? What if he is gone, what would I do then? And Sherlock, and john, what about them? Or what if, by some miracle, Mycroft has made it, will they be able to be together again, will they struggle to adjust to eachother's habits like they did the first time? Will they be able to? Able to be a proper couple?_

“Greg.” The smooth feminine voice of Anthea prompted Greg to school his features the best he could and turn around as she walked into the ruined room and stopped just in front of him.

“Jesus, Anthea, I called you an hour ago. Mycroft?” She shook her head.

“Not here, Greg. The car.” She stepped away and turned to leave the apartment and Greg recognised two things from his willingness to follow. One, he was obviously far too used to Mycroft asking/telling him to get in a car on a moment’s notice. And two, the pain in his chest at the worried look on Anthea’s face that she tried very hard to hide. They both took the now rather unsteady stairs two at a time in a desperate bid for speed. He could see Mycroft’s men hovering around outside and the way they jumped to attention when Anthea waved her hand reminded Greg of exactly how much they respected their boss. They wanted to find Mycroft, he could tell. That urgency did however mean that they were looking. So Anthea didn’t know where he was then.

“Okay,” Greg finally spoke up once they got into the sleek black car with it’s tinted windows, “From the looks of Mycroft’s people out there you don’t know much more than me, so what is it?”

“I just wanted you to know that the official report I’ve put out right now is that Mycroft Holmes is in hospital in critical condition. I just didn’t want you to become too…hopeful. I don’t know where he is, Greg.” The woman looked deflated and depressed for the first time in the long amount of time that he’d known her, “I’m sorry, Greg. Really, I am. We’re looking, I’m looking but that report, it isn’t true, he isn’t in hospital. I wish he was but-“ She stopped talking abruptly, unable to keep going. She wasn’t crying, god forbid Anthea ever cries – then it really would be the end of the world- but she certainly couldn’t keep talking.

“Thank you, Anthea.” Greg got out of the car without saying another word, honestly he didn’t trust himself to – he’d probably break down and collapse in a heap.

_Christ, you’d think not dating the man would make this easier but it really isn’t is it?_

Anthea had known why he’d broken up with Mycroft and had even supported his reasons to an extent, which he was now thankful for. If he had gotten on the wrong side of Anthea he had no doubt he would have been left to believe the news of Mycroft in hospital. And she was right, he would have gotten too hopeful. For now however all that Greg could do was wait. Leave the suits to do their job and keep the scene secure from the outside. So he leaned against the wall of Speedy’s café, lit a cigarette (he never did seem to quit for good) and did everything he could to hold the panic and pain at bay.

 

He was still leaning there at 9PM, had barely even moved other to get a coffee and to buy another packet of cigarettes - having smoked his way through the entirety of the previous packet-,  when his phone buzzed. He answered it with a frantic speed and didn’t check the screen.

“Mycroft?”

“He isn’t with me.” Sherlock sounded only very slightly rattled, “I need you to get over to the address I’m about to text you with as much reinforcements as you can gather. Ask my brother’s PA, I’m sure she’ll help.” Greg pressed buttons quickly on the phone he had specifically for contacting Anthea or Mycroft in an emergency, dialling her number, “Oh and tell her I don’t think he left the island. I don’t know what state he’ll be in but he didn’t leave Sherrinford.” Greg didn’t waste time asking any dumb questions, instead sprinting for his car and calling a few officers over to follow after him. Anthea picked up almost immediately. His heart was beating fast as he held the mobile to his ear.

“Greg? Is there anything- about…?”

“Sherlock says go to ‘the island’, Sherrinford I think he said it was called. Nothing more than that but please, go. Even if there’s a chance.”

“I have people on the way as we speak. Did Sherlock have anything else to say about Mycroft? Or about where he is? Mycroft will not be happy with me if he gets back and I’ve lost Sherlock.”

“I’ll forward you the address that Sherlock is at, I’m on the way there right now with what officers I could scrounge together. Sherlock said I’d need people but not why.” Greg waited patiently for Anthea to respond to the obvious prompting for an explanation, “Anthea?”

“I can’t honestly say I know but,” Greg’s personal phone buzzed as Sherlock sent another text, “Hang on, Anth, sorry.” Doing his best not to crash his car he checked the text quickly, “Sherlock says helicopters and a containment measure and to tell you Eurus, I don’t even know what that is. What language is that? Greek?”

Anthea was very silent on the other end of the line for a few long moments. Uncomfortably so.

“I’ll get you the best containment measure that I can. And be careful.”

“Anthea, what the hell is this all about!” But he was only met by the dial tone as Mycroft’s assistant hung up. _Damn it._

Greg got to Sherlock and John in relatively good time but John still looked freezing as he stood, soaked right through and looking like a drowned rat. But at least Sherlock appeared to be trying to help as he pushed his Belstaf coat into the doctor’s hands repeatedly as they sat together in the open boot of one of the police vehicles. John refused each time to take the coat, much to Sherlock's annoyance it seemed. The grounds were bustling with police and Greg was pretty sure he saw one or two of Mycroft’s agents hanging around as well and for now all Greg could do was to watch. To wait on a call from Anthea, for news one way or another. Despite the pit in his stomach he found himself smiling at Sherlock as he put his coat back on and began strutting from police car to police car and finding new blankets to drape around John’s shoulders.

The phone in Greg’s hand vibrated suddenly, almost making him drop the piece of technology in shock.

“Anthea is he okay? Is he alright?” His words were hurried and overly loud, he’d been trying to look calm all day up until this point and he was very, very close to losing that calm.

“Gregory.” The word was more a sigh than a statement as the exhausted, rather broken sounding voice of Mycroft Holmes came through the phone’s speakers.

“Thank fuck, god, My, you’re okay! You’re okay. Fuck.” Greg barely noticed the wide, relieved grin finding it’s way onto his face. From a distance Sherlock caught Greg’s eye and held eye contact for just a second before nodding an acknowledgement and going back to whatever John and him were talking about.

“Yes, yes I’m fine, Greg. Just fine. Anthea says that Sherlock-“

“He’s fine, My. He’s okay, it’s all good. And I don’t know if this counts as good news as well but your sister is being taken back into custody.”

“Yes, that’s good news.” He really did sound half asleep and Greg just realised he hadn’t actually checked that Mycroft wasn’t harmed. At least hadn’t checked with a reliable source.

“My, love, pass me to Anthea if she’s there alright, I’ll see you when you’re back.” Greg closed his eyes as he spoke, not caring for his word choice and old loving names for the man and that he was largely skipping the ‘making up after an argument’ stage and skipping straight to being back together again. There was a rustle on the other end of the line.

“Is he really alright?” Greg asked, trusting the woman to give him the truth, she cared about Mycroft as a friend after all, not just as a boss.

“Mostly, yes. He seems to have had a slightly adverse reaction to the tranquilliser used to knock him out earlier today but it isn’t bad. Physically he’s fine, Eurus didn’t hurt him at all.” Greg breathed a deep sigh of relief.

“Look when you bring him back just take him straight to mine if there’s no other worries about his health.”

“You’ve made up then have you?” There was a very slight playfully teasing quality to her voice, a stark contrast to her earlier worry.

“Like you didn’t know he was at mine last night, do you think I would do that if I was unwilling to ‘make up’ with him?”

“At yours? Of course I didn’t know!” The sarcasm and playfulness in her voice were nice to hear, an indicator that everything was going back to normal. Or at least as normal as possible with the Holmes’ around, “Rest assured we’ll bring him to you.”

“Thank you, Anthea.” And with that he hung up and made his way over to where Sherlock and John were now standing, having moved from their previous position and now were standing looking a little lost in the middle of the old house’s drive way.

“I just spoke to your brother.” Sherlock turned to him quickly.

“How is he?” He actually sounded concerned about Mycroft, really, genuinely concerned. He really hadn’t been sure whether Mycroft would be okay, had he? He hadn’t told Greg the whole story of events that had taken place but he had been told enough to know that the games that the three of them had been put through were brutal in nature and enough to leave anyone shaken.

“He’s a bit shaken up but she didn’t hurt him, she just…locked him up in her old cell.” Sherlock looked better having heard that. He didn’t mention the tranquilliser since he didn’t know exactly how bad or mild the effects had been. The important part was that he was fine.

“Well what goes around comes around.” John stated matter of factly and Greg frowned slightly. He couldn’t deny that it was the truth. But it also still irritated him to hear so he made his excuses.

“Give me a moment, boys.”

“Erm,” Greg turned, confused as to what more Sherlock could want, “Mycroft, make sure he’s looked after. He’s not as strong as he thinks he is.”

“Yeah, I’ll take care of it.” _I’ll take care of him_. That was the message behind the words and he knew Sherlock would pick up on them.

“Thanks, Greg.” Okay, so Greg hadn’t predicted that. Maybe Sherlock supported Greg more than he would have cared to admit. So Greg turned and did his best to get everything cleared up as quickly as possible, called in a favour so that Sherlock and John had a ride back to London (even if there wasn’t much of Baker Street left for Sherlock to go back to but he presumed that they both would just stay in John’s house) and he hurried back to London alone, driving perhaps a little too fast at times but in a vehicle with a police badge in the window he knew it wouldn’t be questioned _too_ much.

\---

Greg had only been back in his flat for around an hour when he heard the door open and Anthea call that it was just her and not a burglar.

“We would have been here sooner if Mycroft had not insisted on making himself look presentable first.” She called through and the sound of the front door closing gently was just audible as Greg quickly padded in his bare feet and pyjamas to the living room. He’d been right when he thought Mycroft sounded worse for wear. He looked it too. He looked pale and like he was struggling to keep his eyes fully open. But it was clear that he’d made himself presentable, a slight dampness to his hair that shows that he’d insisted on a shower and he was wearing the casual jeans and a jumper that Greg had convinced him to buy when they had first started dating. He gave Greg a very weak smile.

“My,” Greg flung his arms around Mycroft’s neck, or at least as much as possible with the height difference between them, “My.” He repeated the word a few more times as he held onto him, a reminder that he was actually still there. _Not dead_. Mycroft held him back but he seemed to be more fighting to keep his balance than anything else _._ Greg heard Anthea put down a bag and say something about it being clothes but he wasn’t really listening to her, nor did he really notice her rolling her eyes at them and leaving them in peace.

“You’re okay.” It was a statement from Greg to reassure himself more than it was a question. _He was okay._ “Okay, come on, it’s late. We should get some sleep, you need it.” He reluctantly released his grip on Mycroft’s jumper, opting instead for one of his hands and pulled him gently towards the bedroom door.

“Gregory, I can sleep on the sofa again, you know- Wait, did you mean _we_ should get some sleep? _Us_ , together us? I thought I had to sufficiently make it up to you?” Greg couldn’t help a slight chuckle at how slow his mind was running, he’d always found it sweet when Mycroft’s brain struggled, usually after three days awake -  though it was usually equal parts adorable and worrying.

“My, love, I have spent the best part of the day terrified that you were dead. I even did the whole ‘so many words left unsaid’ thing in my head! We are going to have a talk about everything that happened, you aren’t getting out of that one, but it’s always going to lead to me coming right back to you. You know I tried to go on a date when we were apart? It was shit, nothing like our first dates. But we can talk about anything tomorrow. Right now I don’t give a flying fuck whether you have sufficiently made it up to me, I am not letting you out of my sight! Hell, I barely want to even let go of you I’m that scared you’ll just disappear entirely. Now come here.” Greg pulled the slightly bemused looking man down onto the bed with him, not caring he was still wearing his jeans and jumper. They’d fallen asleep wearing suits before and Greg really just wanted to be able to lie beside Mycroft. 

Wordlessly they arranged themselves so that Mycroft was on his back and Greg could lay his head on Mycroft’s chest and hear his heart beating.

“I had the words left unsaid thoughts in my head as well, Gregory. I was certain I was going to die and that is what I was thinking. That I was sorry.” Greg nuzzled his head impossibly closer into Mycroft’s jumper. “I am sorry for taking you for granted, my dear. So very sorry.” Sleep slurred Mycroft’s words slightly as he spoke.

“It’s okay, love. It’s okay. I forgive you. Just please, don’t ever leave me in a situation where I think you’re dead again.” Greg propped himself up slightly to look into Mycroft’s eyes in the dull light of the room that the bedside lamp created. “I had nightmares like that early in our relationship when you would go away for weeks on end, dreamt that you never came back, and they were always the worst. So please…”

“I won’t, I promise I won’t.” Mycroft’s arms tightened around him, pulling him back down to lie on his chest, “I won’t leave you. I won’t let you go through that again.”

Greg nodded against Mycroft’s chest.

“No more nightmares.” He mumbled into the fabric of the jumper before drifting slowly to sleep in Mycroft’s arms for the first time in months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Think I'm going to call that the end there. Hope that was alright for you all, once again it was typed quickly with me doing only a very brief run through for errors so I'm very sorry for that. Honestly I really want to write a long, proper, multi chapter fic about these two and expand more on their relationship, and if I do it would be based largely on the little bits I mention about their relationship here, however I'm not sure if I'm actually a good enough writer to do that. So just a warning if I ever do that then some of this may be reused. Anyways thanks a bunch for reading and for the kudos/subs/just reading this in general honestly. - Lyss


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